


Assistance

by parabolica (orphan_account)



Category: Eye Candy (TV)
Genre: Adrenaline, Enemies to Lovers, Frottage, M/M, Mind Games, Sex in a Car, Unwelcome Arousal, Vulnerability, banter as foreplay
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-12
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-10-03 04:02:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10235453
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/parabolica
Summary: Following a tip-off, Tommy is on a stake-out. The problem? Bubonic was the one who tipped him off.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Sandrine Shaw (Sandrine)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sandrine/gifts).



This is a waste of time.

Tommy resists the urge to check his watch and blows out a sigh. He has a crick in his neck and the muscles in his thighs ache from all the foot-jiggling he’s done, partly to keep warm and partly to stay warmed-up, in case he has to jump out of the car and do something heroic.

There’s nothing heroic about a stake-out. Just long, long periods of total and utter boredom.

It wouldn’t be so bad if Yeager was here with him, but his partner is following up on another lead, sitting in another unmarked car just like this one somewhere else in the city. Tommy snorts. For all the hundreds of millions of dollars the Cyber Crime Unit prevents from leaving the country illegally, you’d think the government would be grateful enough to funnel a modest percentage back into the unit’s budget. But no: They’ve got to deal with funding cuts, just like every other branch of the force.

Hence this state of affairs. Over-stretched, having to work a job alone. At least this is routine. Check out the tip-off, look for suspicious activity, watch what’s going down.

He shakes his head, a wry smile tugging at his lips. ‘Going down’ is kinda inappropriate—or not—when he’s parked near a cruising area watching a bunch of hookers go about their business.

Tommy can’t resist. He glances at his watch. Ten past two. Weariness washes over him, and he rests his head back. Everything seems magnified this morning, the world caught in a limbo of fog, draping cold and heavy from the river. Beneath the bridge it feels like a subterranean world, far removed from the unit’s clean, bright office. Lights down here are made to illuminate, not penetrate.

Water drips onto the roof of the car, an intermittent percussive beat. The red Ford is so ubiquitous as to be invisible; indeed, another four vehicles just like it have been and gone in the past couple of hours. The drivers were as faceless as the cars; a succession of men picking up hard-eyed women with hollow smiles.

Tommy had stopped in the no-man’s land between legitimate roadside parking for the nearby transit station and the cruising zone. Far enough away to be left untroubled by the working girls, but still close enough to observe the activity going on behind him.

Not that much has happened. Just sad moments of congress, mercifully brief. Nine and a half minutes is the longest encounter he’s noted. Watching the transactions makes something inside him curl up tight and shudder.

The passage of time is marked by the misting of the car windows. An idle scribble he’d drawn in the condensation earlier has bled and lost its shape. Large water droplets make their way down the glass to run over the sill. Fortunately for his surveillance, the view from the rear and front windows remains clear, courtesy of the hot water bottles he’d laid on the parcel-tray and dashboard.

Their fading heat isn’t enough insulation against the creeping cold. His breath curdles. The smell of coffee mingles with the faintly greasy aroma of the takeaway he’d picked at and abandoned a few hours ago.

He doesn’t see the shadow detach itself from the darkness until it’s too late. A figure crosses to the car, gait loose-limbed and casual. His reactions dulled by boredom, Tommy is a second too slow. He’s reaching for his gun even as he reminds himself the doors are locked, but then the locks pop and the passenger door opens, and the man slides inside as fluid and easy as if Tommy had been waiting for him.

“Good morning, Detective Calligan.”

The locks click down again. Of course they do. Tommy grits his teeth and lowers his weapon, but keeps it trained on his visitor.

Bubonic is wearing that damn plague mask again. The shadows make it seem even more sinister. A stripe of sodium-yellow from a street lamp catches the damp-misted contours of the mask, turning the eyes into a wolf’s golden gaze.

“You seem distinctly unfriendly today.” Bubonic inclines his head towards the gun. “Put that away before someone gets hurt.”

“What are you doing here?” Not the best line, but Tommy is cold and tired and—how the fuck did Bubonic know where to find him?

A smile gleams from the shadows. “Checking up on you, of course. I’m glad you’re so conscientious about following up on tip-offs.”

Oh, no. No way. No no no.

“You? You provided the tip-off?” Tommy aims for nonchalance, even though his pulse accelerates and a strange kind of heat spreads inside him. Anger, he thinks, anger because he’s been played—again—but there’s something else, too. Something almost like amusement. _Let the games begin_ , wasn’t that what Bubonic had told him?

Bubonic affects a little bow. “Charlie Black, at your service.”

Tommy tucks away his gun. “Black as in Black Death, huh.”

Another glinting smile. “How clever of you to work out my little joke.”

“And what about the Charlie part?”

“That actually is my name, Detective Calligan. Believe it or not.” Bubonic settles back into the passenger seat. “I give you leave to address me as Charlie, if you wish.”

“I don’t wish.” Tommy relaxes a little and flicks a glance into the rear-view mirror. “I’ll stick with calling you a mad bastard psychopath.”

“You wound me.” Bubonic sounds sad. “My parents were very much married when I was born, and I’m not a psychopath. A sociopath, maybe. But one created by circumstance. Which means I can change, does it not? I can be reformed.” He faces Tommy again, merriment in his tone. “Would you like to reform me, Tommy?”

“Stick with ‘Detective Calligan’.”

“Only if you agree to call me Charlie.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. “Okay, Charlie. How about I arrest you now?”

Bubonic laughs. “I don’t think so. Why would you arrest the person who’s trying to help you?”

“This is helping me?” Tommy adjusts the rear-view mirror to give a clearer line of sight to the dented blue van he’s been watching on and off all evening. “More like you’re distracting me.”

A mocking smile curls Bubonic’s mouth. “Why, Detective, I’m flattered.”

“Don’t be. It was a statement of fact, not flirtation.”

There’s no witty comeback, just silence. Surprised, Tommy looks across at his passenger to see Bubonic regarding him through the mask. A moment later, Bubonic lifts the mask from his face and tips it back so it rests on top of wavy brown curls.

Tommy studies his features, trying to memorise them as best he can. It’s dark, shadows taking the place of the mask, but there’s enough light for him to see a pointed chin and round cheeks, the shape of the nose and the fire in those blue eyes.

Not that he can see that they’re blue, but he knows their exact colour even so.

A drop of water bangs against the roof of the car. The silence that follows is long and deep, but not uncomfortable.

He must be losing his mind.

Tommy glances ahead towards the transit station, closed at this time of night, then looks behind at the van and other parked cars. A vehicle is approaching, slowing, headlights dimmed as it passes beneath the first of the three bridges. Girls step out from the shadows like pigeons stirred from their roosts.

“You remember what I told you in the tip-off,” Bubonic says, his voice soft and deep.

“Yeah.” Tommy doesn’t take his gaze from the mirror. “Hookers being microchipped by their pimps as if they were dogs.”

“Not just any microchip,” Bubonic says. “It’s similar to the chip inside your dog, the one that enables you to track where he is, and it contains health information, too—extremely useful in the sex industry, don’t you think?—but there’s more. It holds ID and banking details and a record of clients. A wealth of opportunities for blackmail, all in a device so tiny that existing scanners won’t register it.”

So far, so totalitarian. Tommy looks at him. “You said it was proprietary technology.”

“Yes.” Bubonic smiles, but his expression is grim. “Mine.”

Something a lot like disappointment descends. “You built a microchip for pimps?”

Bubonic curls his lip. “No. I built it for a defence contractor who wanted to keep tabs on its employees. It was stolen from me and modified for its current use. I want it back, Detective Calligan. You and your little Cyber Crime Unit are going to get it for me.”

Tommy raises his hands, leather jacket creaking. “We’re kinda overstretched with things right now...”

“In return,” Bubonic says calmly, “I will solve some of your more pressing problems. The source of the FBI leaks, the trouble with the gold reserves...”

The offer hangs between them. Tommy pinches the bridge of his nose. “Don’t tell me you’re behind those crimes.”

“I’m not. But I know who is.” A smile ghosts across Bubonic’s face. “Tit for tat, Tommy. Do we have a deal?”

Trading wisecracks with a sociopath for what’s left of the night doesn’t seem like the best use of his time. “Why can’t you take this guy down yourself? Why involve the CCU?”

“Because I don’t like getting my hands dirty.”

Tommy snorts, shakes his head. “You’re a piece of work, Charlie.”

“Thank you.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

Smiling, Bubonic leans forward and touches Tommy’s mouth, traces his lips. “A word to the wise, Detective. You’ll catch more flies with honey rather than vinegar.”

Heat flashes through Tommy. Surprised, he pulls away—but not too much. His lip tingles where Bubonic touched him. It would be petty to scrub his hand across his mouth, plus it would suggest to Bubonic that the touch had more of an effect than it did. Tommy runs his tongue over the spot instead.

Bubonic stares, heat in his gaze.

Tommy’s pulse speeds up again. Danger of a different kind, now. The same warmth, though. Adrenalin. Attraction. Same difference, sometimes.

Relief washes over him when he notices a car, headlights off, prowling up the road from the direction of the transit station. He flings out a hand to warn Bubonic, but his passenger has already seen. Instead of moving back into the seat and sinking down, Bubonic leans closer, his breath a warm caress against the side of Tommy’s face. To a casual onlooker—to anyone in the passenger side of the other car—it’ll look like they’re a couple engaged in the preliminaries.

Just before the car passes them, there’s a series of flashes from within. Rapid, flickering winks from a penlight. A signal.

Tommy stares into the mirror, straining to see who’s receiving the signal. Bubonic turns in his seat, the wool of his coat whispering as he moves. This close, Tommy can smell soap, something mild and ubiquitous. Bubonic’s hair brushes his face.

Nothing happens for a couple of minutes. In that time, Bubonic presses a hand to the back of his neck to ease the crick that seems to be developing, and Tommy’s eyes glaze as he focuses on what’s happening in the rear-view mirror.

A man gets out of the van and strolls over to the car, leaning down to exchange words with someone in the passenger seat. Whatever’s said, it makes the man glance up the road towards Tommy’s car. The conversation continues, the man nodding now, and then he returns to his own vehicle and reverses.

The manoeuvre places him out of Tommy’s line of sight.

“Can you see them?” Tommy adjusts the rear-view mirror again then looks in the side mirror. “Damn it, they’re in a blindspot.”

Bubonic slides back into his seat and unbuttons his coat. He doesn’t seem too bothered by the fact that some kind of exchange is taking place behind their backs. Irritated, urgency unfurling bright inside him, Tommy tries to turn around for a better view.

“Don’t do that,” Bubonic says. “They’re already suspicious. If we move too much, it’ll be obvious we’re watching.”

“Then what—”

“Get on my lap.” A hand manacles his wrist, then Bubonic pulls him across. The gearstick jabs into Tommy’s leg, then before he can think better of it, he’s up onto his knees and clambering over the gearbox to settle astride Bubonic’s thighs.

His head brushes the ceiling of the car. His hands rest lightly on Bubonic’s shoulders. The woollen coat is cool, still damp with mist. The position makes Tommy a little lightheaded. He’s blocking most of the illumination from the inadequate streetlamp, but he knows Bubonic is smiling at him. He can see the glint of his passenger’s teeth and the skin at the base of Bubonic’s neck where the black shirt dips in a vee.

Bubonic’s hands come up to grasp his arms. “Pretend we’re making out,” he murmurs, “and look over my shoulder.”

As ideas go, it’s rather basic. But it works. Tommy wriggles on Bubonic’s lap, finding a way to balance so he’s not totally resting his weight through his knees, placed awkwardly between the seat and the gearbox on the right and the door on the left. The new position brings him into greater contact with Bubonic, but that’s okay. They’re both professionals—or at least one of them is—and they have a job to do.

A self-conscious blush crawls up Tommy’s face. This isn’t the only car with its occupants otherwise engaged, and for sure he’s wearing more clothes than the working girls, but even so. He hadn’t realised how tight his jeans were, nor how warm Bubonic was. Tommy squirms a little closer, intent on seeing around the headrest, then jerks back when Bubonic hisses.

“What...” he begins, feeling Bubonic yank at the front of his leather jacket.

“Zipper and studs,” Bubonic mutters. “Digging into me. Best take it off. Then you can get closer. More comfortable.”

“Good idea.” Tommy doesn’t know where that shake in his voice came from. Must be adrenalin. He shrugs out of his jacket, dropping it onto his vacated seat, then focuses, moving his head until he has the best possible view of the meeting taking place outside.

The man from the van has slid open the side door. He’s lit a cigarette and is standing as if waiting. Tommy reports this in clipped tones.

“Can you see the men from the car?”

“There’s only one of them. He’s standing on the pavement and appears to be checking his phone.” Tommy swallows. Sweat glazes his face. He doesn’t know why, when it had been so damn cold before. The fog seems to thicken, swirling beneath the bridges. A one-two-three of dripping water hammers on the roof, making him jump.

He feels vulnerable across Bubonic’s thighs. Open and vulnerable. His own thighs are spread wide, the denim constrictive. The seams dig into him. If he tilts his hips even slightly, his cock, his hard, aching cock, rubs against the seam of his fly.

Tommy’s breathing stutters. Sweat prickles across his nape. He feels heavy, consumed. His vision kaleidoscopes, attention narrowing to the section of pavement between the two vehicles.

 _Keep talking_ , he tells himself. _Talking is safe_.

“They’re both still waiting,” he says, low-voiced, and feels an answering rumble from Bubonic. The sound reverberates through his chest, reminding him of how closely they’re pressed together. Bubonic’s scent tickles his nose. Wool shifts and rubs, giving beneath his hot, damp hands. The shape of a button bites at his palms.

Movement from beneath the bridge makes him freeze. He sinks his chin towards Bubonic’s shoulder. A figure detaches from the darkness. “A woman,” Tommy says in surprise. “The courier is one of the working girls.”

Bubonic murmurs acknowledgement. “I thought as much.”

“Did you?” Tommy sways back, wanting to see his expression.

“Don’t.” Bubonic’s voice lashes him. “Keep watching.”

Stung, Tommy settles again. “The guy from the car seems to be a look-out.” A drop of sweat feels its way down his back. He feels feverish, his body singing with the urge to rub and grind. He forces breath into his words and fixes on a dull recital of facts. “The woman is talking to the van guy. They’re going inside the van. The door’s closed.”

“Are they fucking?”

Tommy feels a weird thrill at the obscenity. “I—I don’t think so. To all intents and purposes it must seem that way, but... The van isn’t moving. Isn’t rocking.” Almost unconsciously he matches words to action, as if Bubonic needed a demonstration of what he meant by ‘rocking’. He pushes down, forward, back; a lightning-strike of desire, a tentative play towards intent.

It feels good. He knows it could feel better.

Bubonic slides his hands up inside Tommy’s sweater. His thighs are tense, rock-hard. He tugs at Tommy’s t-shirt, working it from the jeans, then strokes his hands, warm, strong, over bare skin.

Tommy moans, shivering into the touch. He stops himself, snapping his attention back to the bridge as the van door opens again and the couple emerge. It hasn’t been long enough for sex, only a couple of minutes. The prostitute doesn’t touch her hair or adjust her skirt or do any of the things one would expect a working girl to do after congress.

“They’re both outside again,” he says, holding still as Bubonic traces patterns over his back. “The woman is walking away. The van guy is taking his cigarette from behind his ear and sucking on it. Not exactly a post-coital smoke, but his body language suggests he’s pleased with himself nonetheless.”

“How’s the girl’s body language?”

It’s hard to find her again in the dark, but then Tommy’s sharp gaze locates her. “She’s walking a little easier. Head up, arms swinging. Her part is played.”

“Good.” Bubonic’s hands travel down, sweeping over Tommy’s back to wiggle inside the waistband of his jeans, beneath his underwear. “Good.”

Tommy’s breath freezes in his throat. All he’s aware of in that moment is Bubonic’s hands on his bare arse. It’s like a brand, the touch lighting every part of him. Never has he been so conscious of himself. The physicality of what they’re doing and where they’re doing it arouses him.

Bubonic’s breath tickles Tommy’s ear. They’re both hard, cocks hot and stiff and so damn close. Tommy holds still. There’s no air in the car, only heat.

He doesn’t know who starts it, but suddenly they’re both rocking together, grinding their denim-clad cocks together. Bubonic slips his hands from inside Tommy’s jeans and cups his arse, forcing him down.

They collide, rub together so hard and fierce Tommy pictures sparks flying. It’s almost unbelievably good, the scratching of this itch, the way they move together as if part of the same mechanism. Like components of a pistol, slotted into place and well-oiled, cared-for, triggered into action and working in tandem to reach a goal that’s still tantalisingly out of their grasp.

Tommy dips his head, breathing harshly. Bubonic kisses his neck and he almost cries out, pleasure bolting up his spine and trembling into his limbs. He slams a hand against the headrest to anchor himself, opening his eyes to see the car driving off, tail-lights winking. The van is still parked, engine idling, headlights on low. He should stop this madness, _they_ should stop it, but it’s as if his body is overriding his mind.

He can’t stop. His hips plunge in counterpoint to Bubonic’s demanding thrusts. They rub against each other and hump together, breaths violent and staccato. Tommy claws at the wool coat. He needs to come. He’s going to come.

“They’re leaving,” he bursts out. “The car’s gone. The van’s—”

“Coming?” Bubonic asks.

Tommy nods once. He can barely string a sentence together, he’s so consumed by need. He bucks on Bubonic’s lap, gaze tracking the blue van as it approaches then passes them. “It’s gone, they’ve gone, oh fuck _please_ —”

“Oh Detective,” Bubonic growls, “oh yeah, like that, I can smell you, oh God Tommy, look at you, so hard, so fucking excited you’re creaming in your jeans—”

Tommy muffles his yelp against Bubonic’s hair, soft curls and the cool, implacable smoothness of the plague mask, and with a final frantic jerk of his hips he comes, hot seed pumping out to spread wetly across the denim.

The comedown is awkward and uncomfortable. In silence, they disentangle themselves. Tommy flops across the gearbox back into the driver’s seat.

The windows have steamed up. There’s a long hush.

“Well, Tommy.” For once, Bubonic doesn’t sound snide or mocking. He clears his throat and pulls the plague mask back into place, fumbling a little as he adjusts it. “Thank you for your assistance.”

Tommy laughs, cracked and a little wild. “Thank you for _yours_.”

“Yes. Well.”

The locks click. Bubonic opens the door and gets out. Before he closes it, he looks back, face entirely in shadow. “We’ll catch those guys another time.”

“Sure we will.” A cop and a master hacker on the job together, what could possibly go wrong?

A brief smile gleams beneath the mask. “Goodnight, Detective. I’ll be in touch.”


End file.
